The Red Herring
by double scotch.single malt
Summary: Tom Chandler introspective on his return to the USS Nathan James, circa 2x02. A dissection of the Captain's inner monologue related to the chase for the cure and what he could have done differently to emotionally support Dr. Rachel Scott.


Disclaimer:

This is a work of fanfiction. I do not own The Last Ship, et al.

Author's Note:

Be kind. I haven't written a fanfiction piece in a long while, but after going through a season one marathon for this show recently, I had a spark of inspiration.

 **The Red Herring**

A red herring is something that misleads or distracts from a relevant or important issue. It may be either a logical fallacy or a literary device that leads observers towards a false conclusion.

###

Tom Chandler closed the door to his stateroom and exhaled into the relative silence therein, a litany of checks and balances clicking into place as he did. Remaining still, he lost himself inside the idea of being alone, something he had stealthily avoided since Baltimore, for the slippery slope of guilt and fatigue and concern was slick and unforgiving. He blinked and stepped further into his space, dropping his duffle bag at his feet.

He reminded himself that his father and children were safe. Alive and well enough and encapsulated at home by everything that was left of their life before the pandemic began. And whether this would evolve to be a detriment or a curse to their long-term recovery, it would remain to be seen for years to come. But for now, his father was correct; there truly was no safer alternative for them than their homestead. He was certain of this now that he had returned to the USS Nathan James without them; his judgment clouded last night by a storm surge of unearthed emotions that heightened his protective instincts over their babies after returning home without Darien. _Their babies …_ babies born out of love and lust and adoration. His heart sank. His eyes stung and his vision blurred with unshed tears as a persistent wave of nausea cloaked him wherein he was once again hit with the realization that Darien was gone forever.

 _Darien: his catastrophic loss._

His chest tightened, pinching him somewhere low and deep, a little knot so indescribable and untapped it was surely reserved just for her. Holding the pain steady, he locked it down, pinning it there for safekeeping. He wanted to cry and scream and moan and wail inside his private chamber, but still the idea of opening himself up to truly grieve for all that was lost had remained unthinkable _– for Darien was their nucleolus_ – the reinforced stitching to the fabric of their life they created. And everything they had and were together, well … she was always at the center of it all. _She was everything to him._ And yet, somehow she unraveled and slipped through his fingers in the middle of the night and there wasn't a damn thing he could have done about it. And so her death became part of their history. It wasn't meant to be that she would be spared. She was a casualty and that alone broke him, just a little bit, every time he thought about her.

 _Darien: his heartache._

Scanning his quarters, he spied small reminders of his family's stay within this safe haven. Drawings. Paper airplanes. Toothbrushes. Folded blankets. Items that stood out even amongst the personal photos he displayed to remind him of his family. In both a linear and cerebral sense, Tom knew the energy of his private space was compromised now and forever changed, for his personal and professional lives had collided in an unforeseeable turn of events. And he suddenly felt them here. _His babies._ A place where they weren't meant to linger. He had to leave them behind, he reminded himself. He left them behind to complete the chain of command. Left them to fulfill some kind of unchartered destiny upon the USS Nathan James. And then he wondered: what would Darien really think about that decision?

And it was inside this very private moment, that Tom permitted the husband he was to lament once again over her passing. Silently he wept, the insurmountable loss of his wife suffocating him in perpetuity now. The pit in his stomach churned, relentlessly grinding his insides to a pulp. But he had no recourse – _no escape_ – and therein he allowed his emotions to consume him … to devour him until he surrendered and let himself feel the dull ache of losing his treasured wife, lover, friend, confidant … partner … everything. For Darien truly was everything to him and she represented everything good in his life.

 _Darien: his mind went wild with rage._

They were too late to save her! He grappled with that, daily. He was simply too late. And it was nestled within this horrifying simplicity, that this whole battle – _the race against time for all humanity_ – had become a part of _his_ personal history, for he was inserted into the center of it all. A history marred equally by tragedy and great success. It was part of who he was at the core of his being now and yet, he missed the older version of himself. The archaic version of himself that believed if bad luck had befallen his family, that he would have perished first. A ridiculous notion, but one that he fed himself with a silver spoon every time he deployed and this mission at its inception had been no different.

That was until the tides turned and Dr. Rachel Scott became his red herring – _her true mission exposed wherein those tidal floodgates were opened_ – unleashing with them the unspeakable horrors the USS Nathan James would come to endure, chief among them the massive cover-up orchestrated by the Navy. He was still haunted by the way he screamed at her upon his realization that he'd been duped. And just as haunted by the intense manner by which she stood up for herself … and _her_ mission … on _hi_ s ship.

His gut twisted and heart palpitated, these newer trigger reflexes always coming on strong, though he never seemed ready for on their onslaught. Pulling himself together, he crossed the room to his desk where he noticed Ruskov's book had been returned, no more than a tattered reminder of miserable defeat and the glory of success. He picked the volume up and turned it over, forcing himself to focus on the admiral's photograph. His tight smile and vacant eyes all too familiar now. Tom felt his jaw clench. He wasn't intimidated by Ruskov, never was, it was what the admiral represented that he abhorred. His mouth went dry and he looked up, his eyes moving over his consoles as a shutter of memories barreled through his mind.

 _Floating in the errant sea with Tex._

 _His final order as Commander of the USS Nathan James._

 _Mike's orders, a reversal of his own._

 _Dr. Scott's rescue concealed in a kiss._

 _The look in her eyes with that gun in her hand._

 _The feeling of his chapped skin._

 _Cossetti's untimely death._

Chastising himself, Tom tossed the book aside, and reached for Ashley's bracelet – _his buoy, a life jacket_ – absentmindedly twirling the delicate piece around his fingers, just as he'd done countless times over the last five months. He stopped and stared at his wedding ring on his finger … a perfect fit from the moment Darien slipped it on his finger. He felt sick. He struggled slightly to regain his composure, _twirl, twirl, twirl_ , went Ashley's bracelet. The telephone rang.

"Captain," Tom answered, back into action, his eyes landed on his CIC monitor.

" _CIC, Comm. O. Mason, something you should see here, sir,"_ came Comm. O. Mason on the line.

"On my way," he confirmed, hanging up, his fingers maneuvering the beads for a moment longer. He said a prayer for his baby girl before slipping the handmade relic into his breast pocket and swiftly exiting the stateroom.

Heading with purpose to the CIC, Tom silently reconnected with his men and women while he moved, systematically clicking his way through his mental checklists: his family was safe. The vaccine and cure were moving out at a steady pace, traveling in capable hands. His steadfast crew was surviving as best they could. Admittedly falling apart while simultaneously healing – _living inside this new normal_ – a precarious balance in limbo. The Nathan James was in seaworthy shape. His leadership crew had their heads screwed on for the next phase of their mission. Food stores and fuel were being replenished. Dr. Scott had everything she needed to work. Their allies in Norfolk were transparent. His family was safe.

###

He entered the fast-paced environment of the CIC, his crew steadily working on communication – _all hands on deck and on heightened alert_ – just as they had been for months. He approached Comm. O. Mason and Lt. Foster, both staring intently at a console that had a scrambled image of Dr. Scott on the screen.

Lt. Foster spotted Tom out of the corner of her eye and turned around. "Captain, welcome back," she stated evenly, keen and alert.

Tom quickly assessed her wellbeing, once again looking for any insights into how her pregnancy was going. "What do you have here?" he queried, stepping closer to the console.

Mason turned to look up. "Sir, it's another video file," he answered firmly. "Encryption almost complete, but it's really tight. I'm not sure what we'll see, but when Dr. Scott's image appeared here, we thought to inform you," he reasoned.

"What's the date on that file?" Tom asked, tilting his head as he surveyed Dr. Scott's image, her brown hair in a messy ponytail, her brow knitted, her glasses slightly askew. He watched Comm. O. Mason work effortlessly, his fingers flying across the keyboard, his eyes intense … a steadfast, focused young man.

"As far as we can tell," Mason answered. "The files came through onto the DOD servers from the secure CDC server in early June of this year," he explained. "The last one has been encrypted, there's a total of six recordings, sir," he added.

Tom grabbed a set of communication headphones and watched the console, waiting only a split second before Dr. Scott introduced herself, briefly listing her qualifications. She then spoke about a virus of unknown origin she had encountered in Egypt. She continued, stating with finality that every person who would become infected with this virus would succumb and die, predicting that if something wasn't done very soon, the virus might become the greatest global pandemic the world would ever see.

 _Tom trained his eyes on her image and was struck by her intensity. Of course he wasn't surprised by it, for her knew her well enough now to expect it. He knew she had to fight against all odds_ _ **and**_ _the Navy to get the USS Nathan James to transport her. He knew this – but watching her before he knew her – it was almost like seeing a different person. In the video she looked exhausted. Spent. Anxious. And the more he watched, he felt like a voyeur … and yet he couldn't look away. He stared at her, she paused to remove her glasses, holding herself together for a beat longer before she was overcome by emotion and turned the monitor off._

"So these are her research files," Tom deemed carefully. "Dated in June," he continued, shaking his head, realizing once again just how long she had been chasing a cure and just how long she had to go it alone.

"It appears so, sir," Lt. Foster confirmed, searching his eyes.

"Play the next one," he ordered.

Comm. O. Mason clicked on the file; this one was recorded later in June. Dr. Scott appeared, this time in a lab coat with a cup of tea. They watched as she began to outline her theory on how global warming may have unearthed an ancient virus to which modern human beings would have no natural immunity to fight.

XO Slattery entered the CIC just then and Tom looked up and nodded. Lt. Foster handed him a pair of headphones and he accessed the audio feed for the console.

The officers stood together and watched as Dr. Scott went on to say that it was her belief that this ancient strain, this prehistoric virus had lay dormant in the permafrost Arctic until it had come to the surface and thereby into the water supply via the progression of global warming. Evidence to support this was her discovery of trace amounts of the virus in migratory birds that flew south. Calmly she stated that modern human immune systems were not unequipped to fight back and not finding a cure may result in the extinction of the human race.

"When was this?" Slattery asked; his eyes narrowed.

"Nine months ago," he answered, his thoughts centralizing around the depths of Dr. Scott's intellectual prowess. "Play the next one, Comm. O.," he ordered.

"Yes, Captain," Mason answered.

The next video began and this time Dr. Scott was standing in a conference room of sorts, a large visual of the virus on the screen behind her. She was pleading with someone on the line, likely the US government. Tom saw her forceful personality come through as she persisted with her case, outlining her theory on migratory birds from the Arctic Barents Sea and the need to trace their origins to get to the primordial strain of the virus.

 _There was no denying it – Tom was engrossed by her, having been on many occasions since they met – appreciating now this small insight into a recent moment in her personal history. And therein his heart went out to her. It was hard to watch her fight, to go against the grain, hard to see her treated the way he also treated her when they first met and her mission was a secret. And difficult to come to grips with the idea that she couldn't get anyone to listen to her!_

 _The more he watched, the more the more he realized how alike they were in temperament, completely drawn to her determination, though keenly aware of her desperation, watching now as she implored her counterpart for resources. Declaring at one point that she could depart immediately and that all she needed was a ride for her and a colleague … that all she needed was a ship!_

He noted that she revealed everything, laying all of her cards on the table and using as many hard-hitting facts as she could: the virus had moved beyond phase one rapidly and if they did nothing millions of people would die, that nothing she and her colleagues had tried had worked so far and that they were on the cusp of a world-wide pandemic that would devastate the human race.

Frustrated with the lack of response at one point, she asked if the party on the line could still hear her! Informed that she had sixty seconds left of her transmission, she raised her voice and pounded on her desk. Passionately, she reminded the party that without finding the primordial strain, there was no chance for a cure and there would be nothing they could do to treat the virus or stop its spread – _that whether she was wrong or right_ – something had to be done. It was here that she became overwhelmed and short of breath and ended the transmission.

The video was haunting. Tom fumed. "Nine months, I can't get over it, seeing this now, knowing what we know…," he muttered, turning to Slattery. "She was begging for the U.S. government – _**the Navy**_ – to help her nine months ago!" he barked, narrowing his eyes at Mike.

"Yep and she was right on the money," Slattery nodded in assent. "How many more of these are there?" he wondered.

"Three sir," answered Lt. Foster.

Tom sighed and removed his headphones. "Drop these files on my dashboard, Comm. O., I'll watch the balance of them later," he instructed, sensing that they was just on the perimeter of breaching Dr. Scott's privacy, even though they all knew she ended up getting her transport. "OX, a word," he directed, making to exit the CIC.

Slattery followed him out. "Everything all right, sir?" he asked.

Tom nodded. "How are you holding up?" he asked, studying his XO for a beat – _scrutinizing him for signs of fatigue and stress_ – for he hadn't seen him for more than a few minutes since he'd returned to the Nathan James without news of his family.

"I'm all right," Slattery answered candidly. "It's surreal out there," he added, letting his guard down slightly. "I couldn't make any headway – _I'm sure you heard_ – no leads or new information," he added.

"Master Chief reported as much. You'll keep me informed though," Tom ordered. "Old rules still don't apply but you let me know when we've got decisions to make on this," he added. "I'm learning … things are evolving, changing for the crew as information comes in and we're going to have to adapt … give some slack when needed," he elaborated. "Are you with me?" he questioned.

"Yes sir, one hundred percent," Slattery answered.

"So … we agree – _you get new intelligence on Christine_ – you let me know and we'll figure it out together," he instructed, maintaining a keen eye on his friend and confidant.

"Yes, sir," he declared, a tight smile crossing his serious face.

###

Much later that night, Tom was situated on the bridge. He enjoyed nights like this – _the night or so before leaving port_ – a skeleton crew at work, lots of training going on. He mostly enjoyed the quiet privacy of being on the bridge without the vessel in motion. Like most Naval Captains, Tom lived a life of relative solitude while deployed, internalizing most of his decisions and drawing to conclusions from new sets of circumstances and experiences without a lot of time for second-guessing or consult. While situated on the bridge on the open waters, every day was filled with an awe inspiring wonder and this juxtaposition of being lost at sea, yet precisely where he was supposed be. And like most Naval personnel he gravitated to the adrenaline that came with navigating across open waters, the horizon sometimes the only visible focal point that lay in the future.

 _It was infinite. And humbling. And he loved it._

Presently, he watched a nighttime weaponry exercise in motion on deck, taking in the accuracy by which the crew moved – _each person in precisely the correct place_ – no room for error or miscommunication. He loved the procedural certainty by which the Navy was built upon. He sighed, pressing his lips into a thin line, quietly observing Command Master Chief Jeter directing the activity on the bridge related to the weaponry exercise, his thoughts drifting to the next phase of their mission and the continued distribution of the vaccine and cure. The stakes were high. People were still dying in masses.

With those thoughts in motion, he swiveled in his chair and reached for his headphones, setting them on before he accessed his dashboard and located Dr. Scott's video files. In the fourth video, he watched her side of a transmission with Quincy. She was back in her lab having just returned from Malaysia and spoke with him about the virus. Tom watched her intensely, smiling slightly when she thanked Quincy for believing in her, the same way she eventually thanked Tom after he began supporting her efforts. She went on to discuss with Quincy her stance on keeping their mission a secret (which he apparently had disagreed with), reminding him that the US Navy was their last hope and that if they gave them a ship, silence was a small price to pay for saving humanity – _and this was an incredulous thing in her view_ – that the fate of humankind rested solely on their shoulders.

Tom sighed and looked up from the console, marveling at Dr. Scott and how dead on she was about all of her instincts. His thoughts wandered to Quincy, shaking his head at his eventual death – _so misguided in his desperation to save his family_ – and later so redeemed by his commitment to their mission. Like many others aboard the USS Nathan James, Quincy's death was unwarranted, but he was a true hero in the end in his refusal to give the primordial strain to the Granderson people.

Tom glanced at the time and settled back into his seat, the brief idea of making a trip to the lab dismissed by the late hour, though he was quite certain at this point that Dr. Scott was an insomniac. Absentmindedly he opened the next video, ready for more of her earlier discoveries and predictions. Tilting his head, he regarded her as she hesitated to speak for several seconds. She was stoic and he noticed straight away that her eyes were glassy. Her voice shook when she finally spoke.

"Hi love ...,"

 _And it was those two words that made Tom Chandler's blood run cold in an instant. He stopped the video and stared at her face. Her lips were pressed together in a serious line and atypically her hair was down and perfectly framed her angular face. She looked very pretty despite her unease. She made an effort here, she wasn't the harried scientist, he decided. She was a woman._

A great feeling of uncertainty consumed him then and he admonished himself for his recklessness, for never once having considered this woman's personal life. He knew – _from reading her dossier_ – that her mother had passed away and other perfunctory information, but he never engaged with her on intimate topics. Where in contrast, he knew the personal stories of most of the men and women within his inner leadership circle. So why, aside from her status as a civilian, had he never wondered about what or who she may have left behind?

"Damn it!" he vented.

CMC Jeter immediately turned to him. Tom nodded in assent, pointing at the console. "I missed something," he determined as Jeter accessed the audio feed for the console and came to stand next to him.

Tom remained transfixed by her frozen image for a beat longer, committing to memory her expression of insecurity and sadness, regret and concern. Dreading it, he hit the playback and started the video again, once again watching her hedge – _hold herself together_ – dangling there on a precipice until she dared herself to speak.

" _Hi love … um … I tried to reach you by phone … so the United States Navy has agreed to transport Quincy and myself to the Arctic. Ah, because the nature of our mission, we'll be on radio silence for the duration of our trip. No phone or email for four months … I just wanted to hear your voice one last … … just one more time before I leave. When last we spoke, you were still in Beijing – that's too many people Bub – if you're still there, get to someplace less populated._

 _I've attached a map of some possible hot zones; whatever you do don't go south. Travel north to colder climates – avoid public transport – rent a car and drive … and do it alone. Word of the virus is gong to leak and people will start to panic and that could be even worse than the virus itself … at least at the beginning. You still have the password to the secure server, if anything happens, should anyone else need to access my research, I've uploaded everything. Please take care of yourself … … I'll see you soon … bye."_

The video ended and the screen went blank. Tom's mind was wild. She cared deeply for whomever this video was for, her voice was soft and endearing, but became more adamant and focused when she gave instructions for mitigating the risk of exposure to the deadly virus. Tom sighed and glanced at his watch again. He stood up, prepared to go directly to the lab and check on her. Jeter caught his eye and nodded, but Tom sat back down, for he didn't know what to say or where to start. He'd lost his footing here and wasn't sure how to proceed.

"When was this, sir?" Jeter prompted.

"About six months ago, she'd already gotten the go-ahead for transport with us," Tom answered, he sighed heavily. "There's one more," he exhaled sharply and without hesitating clicked on the final video file, assuming there were no more uploaded to the CDC thereafter because she was aboard the Nathan James.

In this last video, Dr. Scott was in Norfolk on the eve of her first day upon the Nathan James. She hadn't met Tom yet, but had toured the ship. She reiterated the need for secrecy and as she spoke about this, she hesitated. Tom could see now that she felt it was imperative, though she was definitely conflicted, for she was concerned about stripping the crew of their last chance for a real goodbye from them. She was serious and straightforward and out of all of the videos he had seen from her files, she was the most calm and centered in this one. She appeared eager for the mission to begin. And watching this now, he could readily see both her passion and relief about finally gaining some traction.

 _He thought about the first time he'd seen her there in the hangar and how misunderstood she was to him. She was an outsider then. And he didn't pretend to hide that he thought her bird study was ridiculous. She was a stranger and he even told her as much, and this was_ _ **after**_ _he knew about the virus … and seen its wrath firsthand. Of course, he knew they had come a long way in trusting one another – but now he wondered if his assumption earlier today had been right – did Dr. Scott have_ _ **everything**_ _she needed aboard the Nathan James? For work, it was likely she did … but for every other aspect of her life, he was quite sure her resources had been depleted. And that he regretted._

Frustrated, he removed his headphones and came face-to-face CMC Jeter. "You did not fail her, Captain," he said at once, instantly donning his Chaplain persona. "You cannot blame yourself," he added said at once, his dark eyes probing, assessing Tom's reaction to the video.

"Then who am I to blame, Jeter?" he asked of his confidant. He shook his head. "I have you to keep me informed of the enlisted men and women, their wellbeing," he stated evenly. "I never have to wonder or worry about them – _I have XO for everyone else_ – protocol and chain of command ensure that all my bases are covered … except … they weren't …," his throat constricted, he could say no more.

"Having civilian doctors with us, they were none of our business – _aside from their safety_ –and transporting them as outlined under the guise of their research was –,"

"Absolutely, agreed, Jeter. Until they became central to the mission, then I should have treated them differently … especially her," Tom interjected firmly. "I didn't understand them and treated them with indifference, right up to the point we became more transparent with the crew and had encountered onboard threats," he defended weakly. "She implored me to trust her," he sighed. "The onboard threat of the virus, it changed everything … it wasn't until then that I realized our worlds had collided, hers and mine," he muttered, recounting those earlier days.

"Things got crazy, sir, real fast," Jeter countered, attempting the voice of reason. "We cannot be _**everything**_ to everyone," he stated simply.

"Then what are we?" Tom wondered. "We're their leaders, we're who they look to … who they emulate, we're parts of a whole, everyone is essential, this is the US Navy!" he surmised passionately.

"Yes … we lead and watch over them," Jeter answered. "But I see you, sir, and how you operate," he said carefully, his eyes intense. "On some level – _in some way_ – you ended up connecting with Dr. Scott. You worked along side her; protecting her and her research at all costs … getting the mission done. Think of the trials! You were right there in the thick of it with us," he reminded Tom resolutely.

 _Unable to let go of his feelings of unease, Tom could not allow himself to accept how one-track minded he had been with respect to Dr. Scott's emotional wellbeing. For crying out loud the woman was on a mission to save the human race! He was up to speed on this mission from the moment it was revealed … but he never asked her how she was holding up on a personal level._

 _How did she feel about being on the Nathan James, was she shell-shocked? He had no idea. How was she coping? Again, he had nothing to go on. She shot a man in the head, put herself in harm's way to rescue him and Tex … had she ever been in a hostage situation before? Held a gun before?_

 _Likely no … she was scientist, and quite possibly the most fearless person he'd ever met. He blinked and focused on the expansive view from his perch, searching for answers in the dark. He could do nothing but shake his head at his insensitivity and oversights. He sighed with disappointment._

"Yes … I suppose we were all there in the thick of it," Tom finally answered. "But in all the time I spent with her … fleeting moments alone even … I never asked or wondered if she was okay," he persisted, regret encapsulating him. He shook his head and looked away from Jeter, emotion bubbling to the surface as he trained his eyes on the deck below. He sighed heavily. "I can admit, I missed this," his voice cracked.

"Sir –"

"No," he insisted. "I never cut her a break, never allowed myself to get some insight into her mindset," he whispered harshly. "All I knew was that she was essential … keeping her alive and out of harm's way was the mission, but I feel … ," he exhaled, losing himself, small little pieces of himself, fell away and into the darkness outside. "Appalled …," he finally said. "I'm appalled because we became partners in this, Jeter … and I still didn't and **haven't** wondered if she wanted to search for her family … or whomever she was addressing in this video here," he admitted sadly.

Jeter sighed and set his hand on Tom's shoulder. "Well, the good news is, you can still start a dialogue with her," he said firmly.

Tom nodded. "You're right," he affirmed. "Thank you, Jeter," he added, turning the console off. "Looks like training is going well out there," he commented, swiftly changing the subject.

"Yes sir," Jeter affirmed, a small smile crossing his face.

"Well, no time like the present, we all know she never sleeps," Tom asserted.

And with that, he nodded and sprang into action, heading for the small anteroom mess hall located near the bridge. He gathered what he needed and flipped the kettle on, all the while cataloging his interactions with Dr. Scott over the last several days. His thoughts centralizing on one particular moment: _the drastic change in her demeanor when she spoke with her mentor out of Florida._ Letting that moment resonate now, Tom remembered being taken aback by the raw emotion she displayed – _a visible crack in her porcelain veneer, which revealed her more humanizing emotions, personal emotions he had really only witnessed on these videos_ – and they were palpable.

###

Lost in in thought, Tom had navigated from the anteroom to Dr. Scott's lab and presently vacillated outside, briefly wondering if his olive branch may be too late and if she was by herself in there. He entered swiftly and was glad to see she was alone in the far corner, her petite body bent over a microscope. She had her laptop next to her and was moving between the two devices. She looked much like he was used to seeing her: intrigued, intense and focused.

He walked toward her and she turned around, smiling slightly when she saw him. He tilted his head and regarded her – _looking for the signs of inner turmoil he observed on her videos_ – this wayward piece of her soul she hid from everyone along with signs of personal stress and emotion.

"Hello, Captain," she greeted him formally. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" she wondered, her small smile lingering, she smoothed her flyaway hair away from her face.

 _Scanning her faceted eyes for a moment, he searched for more insight, checking on her, making sure of her. She looked okay. She was all right._

"I thought I might find you here," he surmised with a grin.

"And you thought … I might like some tea?" she teased, glancing at him sideways.

Tom smiled slightly. "Yes, actually," he answered, offering her a mug. "It's not the special green stuff you gave me," he cautioned with a wry grin and to this she laughed out loud. "But it's the US Navy's finest," he chided.

"Well thank you," she smiled, taking a small sip. "Good stuff," she smirked, keeping her intense eyes trained on his.

Tom sighed. "Can we talk?" he asked of her, pulling up a chair.

"Sure," she answered, taking her seat. "Everything okay?" she queried, her attention focused, a deep look of concern washing over her features.

Tom swallowed hard into the relative silence between them. "Well … that's what I wanted to ask you," he said softly.

"Oh?" she said, surprised and flicked her eyes away from his for a beat; he watched her cheeks heat.

 _She took a sip of her tea and found his eyes again. He moved his chair a little closer to hers and smiled tightly, taking in the way the ambient light from her equipment played off of her more delicate features, she was okay, he silently told himself._

"I have a confession to make," he said earnestly then. She tilted her head. "I watched your research videos," he admitted, holding her gaze steady.

"I … well, I uploaded them to a secure server, the DOD had those videos, they weren't necessarily private," she replied evenly, her eyes searching his for more.

"I know, Comm. O. Mason gave me the source, he believes a lot more information is coming down from broken transmissions now that we're back … but … the last couple videos … they were more personal in nature …," he explained, his voice trailing off. He exhaled.

"I have no secrets, Captain … **now** , there are no secrets, no red herring," she reasoned, her dark eyes pinned to his. "It doesn't bother me that you've seen those videos, it would have been my preference for you to have seen them in advance," she declared. "Perhaps you would have understood me more," she sighed heavily, her eyes moving around the lab. "The fact that I had to fight and keep things from you … I was greatly bothered by those circumstances …," she insisted.

"I'm aware of that now," he affirmed, regarding her for a beat.

"Really, it came down to the human reaction of panic, not trust in you, I do hope you believe me," she sighed. "Panic and mass hysteria and what they do to people in times of great desperation, especially with so much of the populace at risk, would have torn this world apart, cure or no cure," she professed calmly.

Tom pressed his lips into a smile, marveling at her steadfast rationale, seeing the essence of the woman he saw on the videos come through. "I believe you … I know you were doing the best you could with the cards you were dealt," he deemed carefully. He leaned back in his chair and set his mug down on the edge of her desk. "It was just … intriguing to see you fight for what you believed in – _and seeing you like that, with something to prove_ – was a lot different than reading about your lifelong dedication in a dossier," he went on. "It was a curious thing to see a side of you I haven't before … or at least the side of you I haven't **allowed** myself to see and that got me thinking … a lot … ," he sighed, his uncertain eyes fixated on hers as she regarded him. "Thinking about what I could have done differently … for you," he exhaled, his chest tight.

Dr. Scott remained silent, her eyes still searching his. Tom watched her carefully, looking for signs of distress. She set her mug down and shook her head.

"Hindsight doesn't always reveal the answers we look for, Captain," she said thoughtfully, her voice soft. "As a scientist, this is a practice we grow used to – _drug and vaccine trials prove this again and again and again_ – there is no right answer or combination until it presents itself … and even then it's … a miracle," she reasoned, her eyes bright and alert, and again he found himself captivated by her perseverance.

"You're so passionate," he blurted out, admiring her.

She smiled. "Well … science without passion wouldn't get anyone anywhere," she explained with a wry grin. Tom nodded. "You've seen how tedious this work is, how tense and all-consuming it can be… regardless of the human race being in jeopardy," she smiled weakly. "Without a passion for it … we'd never figure anything out," she laughed at herself. "No one would want to do this type of work if there wasn't a big payoff to dream about … a breakthrough … something that could change the world … or cure people or solve a problem," she added fervently.

Tom smiled. "All of which makes you one of the greats Dr. Scott – _you're like the storm chaser_ _ **and**_ _the beacon_ – a force to be reckoned with … and I just wish …I appreciated that sooner …," he stopped himself and looked away. "You were and **are** my responsibility and … I wish I had been more attentive to your emotional wellbeing …," he admitted, keeping his eyes trained on hers until this time, she looked away.

"Oh well … things were out of control … surely you shouldn't have cared –,"

"No … there you are wrong, it's my job to care … on some level," he stated strongly. "And … I'm sorry I wasn't there for you – _of course_ _keeping you and your work safe, everything you represented was critical to this mission –_ but thoughtlessly, even since our return, I haven't invested personal energy to you …," he whispered, his voice cracking, thinking of all that was lost. "I never asked you, never wondered who you might want to look for … or who you might be missing or worried about – _for crying out loud every person on this ship_ – myself included has wanted to find someone … special …," his said, his voice catching. He cleared his throat.

Dr. Scott's eyes welled with tears. "Well … then I must apologize too … for your loss … for your children," she breathed, her delicate features contorting slightly as she tried to maintain her composure. She blinked several times in rapid succession. "I wish we were on time!" she said fervently. "I wish we could have spared her – _your lovely wife_ – and the families of the brave men and women of this crew! Quincy was right, the sacrifices are just too great!" she lamented harshly.

 _Without hesitating, Tom inched closer and set his left hand over hers in an effort to assuage her fears, to offer her comfort, but remained silent, for what was there for him to say?_

"This is my regret … my wish … see …we both have them, Tom … wishes … and regrets …," she asserted, using his first name for the first time since they met.

 _She blinked and set those waiting tears free, covering herself with her hands wherein she finally folded under the stress of the ordeal, her petite, yet strong frame caving slightly from the pressure of it all._

Tom's eyes stung. Unable to watch her, he craned his neck back in an effort to recede his own reflexive tears. Without thinking, he set his arm along the tiny frame of her shoulders and leaned forward and into their heat, holding her there inside the moment. "You and I are so similar, Rachel …," he whispered intimately, somewhere on the precipice of where he hoped to end up with her tonight. "You're so calculated … so fearless," he said gruffly, somewhat dismayed. "We're so much alike it's scary sometimes …," he added intensely.

 _He blinked, tiny tears at the corners of his eyes popped free. His heart ached for the both of them and for all that was lost. He felt her breathing became more regulated and she relaxed into him slightly, letting her guard down and therein his own heartbeat began to regulate and it was here, in this stance that they stayed for several minutes while the world as they knew it became something else entirely._

Before long, Tom looked up; his eyes swept the lab, still dismayed by its presence in the hangar. He rubbed her back gently. "May I ask you something, if that's okay … something personal," he said softly into her ear. She made no move to protest. Instead, she raised her head and smiled weakly. Tom searched her red eyes for a reason to quell his desire for answers, but found nothing … _she was okay_ , he told himself. He exhaled sharply. "Who were you talking to … there was a video, someone in Beijing?" he wondered softly.

 _He watched her demeanor change instinctively at the mention of this video recording. She smiled weakly and her eyes became glassy. She sniffled, but reeled her emotions in, pulling on them akin to a fishing line. Tom drew her near for a beat. Nodding, she reached over and closed the file on her laptop, revealing a photograph of her with a man – his arm around her, a relaxed smile on his face – and a look of absolute adoration on hers as she looked up to him. She appeared younger and more carefree … and relaxed and happy and it was evident, they were in love and well matched._

"This is Michael," she offered softly. "And he … I don't know if he is alive …," she whispered, her voice quivering. "He … was, as you know, in Beijing, where I … I don't know, the likelihood of his survival … it feels impossible," she sighed into their confessional, her voice so soft Tom felt sure her words were meant for his ears only. "He was … **is** … the love of my life … and I can't stop wondering … wanting … him …," she breathed, her words barely audible, his arm still around her.

 _As Tom listened to her, he realized they also had this in common – and suddenly seeing her this way was an awful lot like looking into a mirror – for he thought it possible that her love for Michael had indeed matched his love for Darien. He glanced at the image on the laptop, paying attention to the fine details this time, the way Michael's fingers capped her shoulder … and of course the way she looked at him … gravitating toward him, so effortlessly. He was revered. The photo offered a very small glimpse into her unquestionable happiness before the virus swept across the world._

"How can I help?" he asked of her then, completely enthralled by the way she coveted this man.

"Oh … I'm not sure if there is anything to hope for … or to look for … I've called his number again and again since we docked here in Norfolk …," she stated evenly, her eyes still pinned to the laptop screen, unwilling to look away. "I just … it's becoming more apparent that might not have gotten out of China in time …," sniffled, a new set of tears emerging. "The thought of him dying that death … alone …," she wept softly. "Oh, how I wish things were different," she exhaled. "Even though we have the cure – _this time, the miracle, the breakthrough_ – it pales in comparison to the emptiness I feel inside … I'm too vulnerable … just a little numb …," she rambled on, setting her hand over her heart.

"Me too," he admitted, finding her eyes; he smiled weakly. "But the cure, the vaccine – _mankind as we know it_ – it was your tenacity … your unwillingness to give up, that saved the crew and countless others … you're remarkable," he complimented, noticing now how tired she suddenly looked.

"Hmm …," she hummed, her eyes still fastened to the image of her with Michael.

"Rachel …," he muttered, she turned to him. "You're the bravest person I know …," he smiled, his tired eyes locked on hers. "You can't forget how instrumental you were on this mission, hell, you faced Ruskov!" he reminded her, his eyes wide. "You made yourself a pawn to rescue me and Tex …," he marveled at her still.

"Well … you're revered, absolutely essential to your crew … you mean everything to them," she whispered into their shared space, her voice trailing off.

"So do you," Tom replied sincerely ... _everything._

"No … no … the crew, these people – _they hail to you, you belong to them_ – in a way I that didn't understand until you were captured," she sighed wistfully. "I think, in those hours, when you and Tex went missing – _I'm sorry to say it_ – but there was no way they would've listened to your last command …," she smiled broadly. "And Mike, he just took one from your playbook …," she surmised evenly. Tom shook his head in an attempt to negate her statements, but she persisted. "It's true, Captain – _you lead with your heart, your gut_ – and they just did what you would have done, for any one of them," she exhaled.

"Yes, that much is true … but without you, there would have been no cure, it was reckless of them to use you –"

"They did what they had to do," Rachel insisted now. "They had to rescue you – _they needed to try_ – and for me …," she exhaled. "Well Ruskov, he just wanted me, so I put my faith in your crew, I let them use me …," she sighed. "I'm more useful than revered –"

"But to me you are … you matter, to me …," he whispered sincerely.

 _Rachel tilted her head and shook her head – "no, no" – she answered silently, unable to meet his gaze as she began to shut down._

Tom leaned over to find her eyes. "Don't do that, don't disappear on me … please …," he pleaded. "I mean it – _you matter to me, Rachel_ – and that's what I came to realize today … you matter to me on a level that has surpassed my greatest imagination and I wasn't there for you emotionally and I regret that," he said fervently, holding her gaze. "You created a cure that saved my children … my father … for crying out loud!" he exclaimed in a low whisper. "With that cure, you saved me and what was left of my livelihood and it'll do the same for millions of others," he continued softly. "Please … can you admit how extraordinary that is?" he wondered.

 _He watched her concede in assent and for a brief moment, a flicker in time, she decompressed ever so slightly._

"It's … been overwhelming, I'm happy for it," she said softly then. "I'm of course, thrilled and relieved it all worked out … but I just feel like – _the other shoe will drop_ – it's the other shoe I'm worried about," she sighed heavily. "This looming finality of accepting the loss of so many lives … of losing Michael," she exhaled, her tired eyes glassy, a forlorn energy covering her akin to a cloak.

Tom realized there was nothing he could do to quell her fears aside from taking some serious action. "Listen … within the next day or two, I will commit some intelligence and communication resources to find more concrete information regarding Michael for you," he offered sincerely.

She sighed heavily and made to collect herself. "Thank you … for that," she accepted his offer with a weak smile.

"You're welcome," he smiled in return, feeling as though they had reached a plateau together. "You deserve to find your answers … just like any other soul aboard the Nathan James," he asserted evenly, his mind at ease for the first time in a long while.

 _And without another word, the two new friends sat together, looking over the expanse of her lab, surely their minds mulling over everything they had been through both together and apart within this space. The barriers between them were gone; their silos had been dismantled until all that remained was the two of them … two people who became trusted friends in the face of adversity._

 _And in the end those demons Tom sought to face on this day were no match for the power of inner peace and humility he felt via his willingness to both confront and forgive himself for the wrong turns he'd made with respect to Dr. Rachel Scott and her vision and mission to save the human race. She was okay. He was okay. They were okay._

###

When Tom finally retreated to his stateroom, the sun was rising _– a shift change was in progress_ – and there was a healthy buzz about the USS Nathan James, a percolating energy he hadn't felt since the day before they embarked on their mission to the Arctic, the day he first met Dr. Rachel Scott as she and Quincy loaded their lab equipment into the hangar. He closed the door and sighed inside his personal space and much like he usually did – _his eyes scanned his monitors_ – just a perfunctory review for anything he would consider an outlier.

Exhaling, he grabbed his duffle bag and swiftly pulled out a framed photograph of him and Darien on their wedding day and moved to set it on his bedside table. He felt for his wedding band, feeling the smooth gold slide against his fingers as he twirled it around and around. Comforted, he sat down, smiling broadly as he marveled at Darien's absolute gorgeousness through his watery eyes, for she radiated more happiness that day than in all of their years put together – _the birth of their children aside_ – she would have agreed: their wedding day was her best day. She was young and carefree and so incredibly happy and he remembered reveling in the knowledge of how fortunate and blessed he was to have met her in the first place.

With a continuous loop of memories from that blessed day running through his mind now, exhaustion overcame him. He pulled his shoes off and lay back on his bed, turning on his side, not bothering to change his clothing. Stilling his heart, he kept his eyes trained on the happy photograph, smiling as he listened to the all too familiar sounds of the Nathan James.

And as he did, he allowed his thoughts to drift, his mental checklist running in the back of his mind once again: his family was safe. The crew of the Nathan James was healthy and virus free. The vaccine and cure were on the move and essential labs were being identified at a relatively fast clip. Before long they would leave port and head south to Florida where Rachel would reconnect with her mentor, a man and scientist she greatly admired and trusted and also revered.

And as his eyes finally closed, Tom avowed to become more emotionally available and present,when necessary. Making an effort to repair his relationship with Rachel had taught him that much. He could rest easy now, knowing she was okay and that they had no secrets. Certain now that she had what she needed to work and to live on the Nathan James, at least for the time being.

And so he promised himself to become the Captain and friend she would to be able to count on in a time of personal crisis – _especially on those challenging days when nothing seemed all right_ – because she mattered to him and was his partner in this ordeal and because it was true … everyone needed to be everything to someone every once in a while.

 _And in that moment Tom realized, that the red herring, this stigma Rachel had represented for all of these months, had finally been thrown out to sea … and all that remained was everything she had become … Rachel: his last hope … his voice of reason … his friend._

 **END**


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